by Scott McEwen
“But Mama’s—”
“Mama’s in good hands, Marie. I mean it! You stay put!”
“Okay.”
“I gotta go forward and talk with the pilot. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
She was hanging up as Dusty was coming down the stairs dressed in his Carhartt rain gear, toting a scoped .30-06 bolt-action hunting rifle.
“Dusty, Gil doesn’t think you should go over there. He’s on the way with his team now.”
“What team?”
She pulled her wet hair back from her face. “Navy SEALs. They’re on a plane headed this way.”
“Well, I ain’t no SEAL, but I can shoot, and if two of Buck’s boys are already dead, he’s gonna need help holdin’ the fort until the cavalry shows up.” He took a black cowboy hat from a peg on the wall and put it on. “Ya know, your mama picked me up at school once when I was little. My stepmom flipped her car over in the blizzard, and with everybody busy trying to find her, they all sorta forgot about me. But not your mama. I remember her tellin’ me on the way home that cattle folk gotta look after one another, even if they don’t always get along. I reckon she was right.”
“Dusty, she wouldn’t ask you to risk your neck because she gave you a ride home in the snow.”
“I know it.” He took a box of cartridges from a drawer. “I’m gonna get saddled up. You make yourself at home.”
He pulled the door open.
“Dusty, wait!”
He looked at her.
“You got an elastic bandage?”
“All horse people got elastic bandages. Why?”
“Help me wrap this cracked rib, and I’ll go with you. You’ll need me to point out who was where when I left.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Marie. No offense, but you’re a woman, and you’re hurt.”
“How many Al Qaeda have you killed, Dusty?”
“None, but that’s not what I’m talkin’—”
“Well, I’ve killed two already, so round me up a goddamn bandage, will ya? I’d like to get back in this thing before it’s over.”
59
IN THE SKY OVER WYOMING
“Master Chief, I’m sorry as hell,” the pilot of the Gulfstream V was saying. “I really am, but I’ve been ordered to divert to Creech AFB, and that’s what I’ve got to do.”
“My hearth and home are under attack,” Gil said. “Do you understand what that means? Al Qaeda is on the ground trying to kill my family.”
“I understand,” said the pilot, an air force captain. “But my orders come straight from Colonel Bradshaw, and his orders are straight from the president himself. What can I do?”
“You can stay on course!”
“No, I can’t. I’d be flying straight into a court martial. You may not have a problem disobeying orders, but I’m not wired that way. Besides, the FBI and the Montana State Police are both en route to your ranch. I’m sure everything’s going to be okay.”
Gil knew he had to get to Montana. The Helena office of the FBI didn’t even have a helicopter at its immediate disposal, much less any kind of hostage rescue team. And as for the Montana State Police, they were good guys, but most of their training was traffic related, and Gil knew they’d be no match for a trained Al Qaeda hit squad—especially if they were AQAP operators.
He shifted his gaze to the copilot. “How about it, Lieutenant?”
The copilot pointed at the pilot. “My orders come from him.”
Gil left the cockpit mad enough to shoot somebody, pulling the door closed after him.
Crosswhite was waiting there. “What did they say?”
He shook his head. “They aren’t wired like me.”
“What about John Brux?” Crosswhite suggested. “Think he could help?”
Gil cocked his eyebrow. “You got ’im in your fuckin’ pocket?”
“Look, these fuckin’ planes will damn near land themselves,” Crosswhite said. “We’ll just get Brux on the phone, and he’ll tell us how to program the computer.”
“That’s a pretty good idea.” Gil chuckled. “Once in a while, you’re almost worth having around.”
A few minutes later, they had John Brux on the sat phone, and Gil broke the situation down for him. Brux was the former air force pilot who had flown topcover for Gil’s unauthorized mission to rescue Sandra Brux, Brux’s wife.
“We owe you everything,” Brux told him over the phone. “So, yeah. Hell, yeah. If you can get in the pilot’s seat, I’ll tell you how to program the computer.”
“Stand by.” Gil looked at the rest of the team. “Any of you guys have a problem taking the cockpit if the pilots won’t give it up?”
The SEALs all popped out of their seats.
Crosswhite put his hand on the cockpit door. “Just give us the order, Chief.”
Gil nodded reluctantly. “Take the plane.”
Crosswhite opened the door and stepped into the cockpit. “Excuse me, Captain.”
The pilot looked back at him. “What now?”
Crosswhite placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Well, you can put this plane on autopilot and vacate the cockpit. Or you can try to resist us and probably end up crashing the goddamn thing. Which is it gonna be?”
“Bullshit! You’ll kill us all if you try landing this thing yourselves.”
“We’ve got a G-V pilot on the phone who says he can talk us through the landing. So get outta the goddamn seat.”
The pilot looked at his copilot. “See? I told you these crazy fuckers would pull something.”
The copilot shrugged. “I don’t recommend a fight, sir.”
“No shit!” the captain said bitterly, turning to Crosswhite. “I’ll land in Bozeman, but every fucking one of you is gonna swing for this.”
Crosswhite grinned. “If I had a quarter for every time somebody said that to me.” He kept Brux on the phone so he could tell him how to verify if they were flying in the right direction.
Ten minutes later the radio came to life . . . “Air Force Flight One Sixty-Eight. This is Nellis AFB. Please advise as to why you have not corrected course.”
Crosswhite put his hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Don’t give them a reason to shoot us down, eh?”
The pilot gave him a look. “This is Air Force One Sixty-Eight. Nellis, we are continuing to Bozeman Yellowstone International.”
“Standby, One Sixty-Eight.” There was a ninety-second pause. “One Sixty-Eight, that’s a negative. You are ordered to divert to Creech AFB.”
“Tell them we’ve got engine trouble,” Crosswhite said.
The pilot advised they were having hydraulic trouble and that Nellis was too far.
“Um, stand by, One Sixty-Eight.”
Three minutes later . . . “One Sixty-Eight, you are clear to proceed to Bozeman Yellowstone. Be advised you’ll be catching the tail end of a cold front coming down from the northwest, so expect chop.”
“Roger that, Nellis. Thank you.” The pilot looked back at Crosswhite and smirked. “You think you’ve won, but they’re gonna have every cop in Montana waiting there to greet us. You wait and see.”
Gil cleared his throat from where he leaned in the doorway. “Which is why we’ll be landing ten miles away at a private airfield.” Gil handed him a slip of paper. “Those are the exact GPS coordinates.”
The pilot took the paper and passed it to his copilot. “Enter the coordinates, Lieutenant.”
60
MONTANA,
Private Air Field
The pilots stared out the windshield as they taxied the G-V toward a waiting midnight blue Douglas DC-3 twin-prop transport plane waiting at the end of the runway. Stenciled on the fuselage in bright yellow was the slogan “Dive the Sky!” One of the DC-3 pilots stood beside the aircraft next to a pile of pa
rachutes and jump harnesses. The night was still heavily overcast, but the rain had ceased, leaving the air cold and damp.
Gil gave the pilot on the ground a thumbs-up. A few seconds later, the DC-3’s engines coughed and the propellers began to turn.
“Who’s C-47?” the lieutenant asked. This was the military designation for the twin-prop transport.
“Belongs to a buddy of mine,” Gil said. “A retired airborne Marine. He gives skydiving lessons now.” He looked into the back. “Gear up, men! He’s got our chutes laid out on the deck beside the plane.”
The air force captain applied the brake and killed the jet engines, and then turned around in his seat. “I seriously doubt anybody anticipated this move. I guess it helps having home field advantage.”
“We’ll see,” Gil said grimly.
He left the cockpit, accepting his .308 Remington MSR (Modular Sniper Rifle) from one of his SEALs and trotting down the stairs to greet the DC-3 pilot on the ground. Crosswhite and the other eight SEALs were quickly shrugging into their jump gear.
“Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “I can’t tell you how fucking much I appreciate this.”
“Bull butter,” replied fifty-year-old Sergeant Major Johnathan Frost. He had gray hair and a mustache, and he spoke with a Missouri accent. “Got an extra M4? I’m jumping with you guys. Bart can bring the plane back himself.”
“I can’t let you do that, Jack. You’ve got a wife waiting at home.”
“Then it’s a good thing I brought my AR along.” Frost grinned. “You can’t keep me from jumping outta my own plane, Gil.”
“Fuck,” Gil muttered. “Clancy! Get Jack an M4 outta the kit!” He turned back to Frost. “You’re an irresponsible husband, Jack Frost.”
Frost clapped him on the back. “I guess it takes the pot to call the kettle black.”
“Eat me, jarhead.”
Six minutes later, they were loaded onto the DC-3 and roaring down the runway.
61
MONTANA,
Five Miles South of Gil’s Ranch
Special Agent Carson Porter had been with the Bureau for five years, chasing bad checks all across the Big Sky State, and though he had arrested one or two tough hombres in his limited tenure, this was his first time leading an operation where gunplay was expected, and he was finding the pucker factor to be greater than he had previously anticipated.
The Highway Patrol’s local post commander, Lieutenant Quentin Miller, was just pulling up with four other cruisers in tow, and so far no one from the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Department had arrived.
Porter got out of the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria and stepped across the road. The rain had recently abated, and a chilly fog was quickly setting in. “Quentin, how are you?”
The post commander sat behind the wheel of his marked Highway Patrol car. “Tired as hell. How many bad guys are supposed to be up there? We haven’t been told shit.”
“As many as twenty with automatic weapons. Where’s everybody else?”
“Who everybody else?”
“The rest of your men? The Sheriff’s Department?”
“I don’t know. Your people didn’t contact the sheriff?”
Porter threw up his hands. “Christ, Quentin, you work hand in hand with those guys. You’re telling me you didn’t even give them a call?”
“Hey, goddamnit! I was asleep in bed when Colonel Reed called from Missoula telling me to hightail it out here with a security detail, and that’s what I did. He said the operation was under federal jurisdiction. Call me stupid, but I assumed that meant the FBI would be handling the logistics.”
Porter glanced at Agent Spencer Starks as he came across the road. Starks was an African American who had served as a loader in an M1 Abrams during the early days of the Iraq War. His tank had been hit by an RPG fired from a rooftop, and he had taken enough shrapnel in the left shoulder to send him home for the duration.
“It’s already fucked up, Spence.”
Starks shook his head. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
“Okay,” Agent Porter said. “I guess we’re it then. What did you guys bring for firepower?”
Miller thumbed over his shoulder toward the trunk. “We each got an AR in the back, standard issue. Four mags apiece.”
“No body armor?”
“Just our vests. We’re not SWATs.”
“What do you think?” Porter asked Starks.
Starks rubbed a hand over his bald head. “I think if we don’t get our butts up there pretty soon, there won’t be any reason to bother.”
“Hey, has anybody thought to call up there to the ranch?” Miller ventured. “You know, just to make sure this ain’t a snipe hunt? I know Shannon’s this big war hero and all, but it does sound pretty far-fetched. Al Qaeda here in Montana? Come on.”
“That’s no harder to believe than a nuke in DC,” Starks said.
“Did they find it yet?” Miller asked.
“No, but they’re evacuating the city as we speak.”
“Calling up to the ranch would be a good idea,” Porter said. “But I don’t have the number.”
Miller chuckled. “That’s the FBI for ya . . . Forgetful Bureau of Intimidation.”
“Hey, I’m doing the best I can. The DC bureau dropped this shit in my lap an hour ago with almost no intel. They were busy scrambling their asses off to evacuate the city like everybody else.”
Porter and Miller looked at each other, neither man willing to admit he didn’t want to go up that foggy country road undermanned and ill equipped.
“I’ve been up there once before,” Miller remarked. “It’s open country all the way. If we go with headlights, they’ll see us coming. We might end up gunned down in our cruisers.”
“Yeah, and without lights,” Porter added, “we might run off the road. I think we’d better call and wait for the sheriff to get his SWAT team out here. I don’t want a Dade County repeat.” He was referring to the 1986 fiasco in Miami in which two FBI agents had been killed in a Wild West–type shootout with a pair of very determined desperados.
Miller sat back in the seat, adjusting his creaking leather gun belt. “Well, it’s your call. Like I said, I was told this operation was under federal jurisdiction.”
With Starks at the wheel, the FBI’s black Crown Victoria peeled out and tore off up the dirt road.
Porter whipped around to see the taillights of the unit disappearing into the fog.
“Where the fuck is that idiot going?” Miller said.
“Shit!” Porter spit in the road and stood with his hands on his hips. “He’s gonna get himself killed up there.”
“Yeah, well, it ain’t your fault,” Miller said. “You know how those people are.”
Porter turned his head. “Quentin, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The highway patrolman shrugged. “Nothin’. You’d better give the sheriff a call.”
Porter patted his pockets for his cellular. “Perfect! I left my phone on the seat.”
Miller pressed the number for the sheriff on his own phone and offered it out the window. “Hey,” he said with a grin. “Be sure and tell them to bring a body bag for the Fearless Black Infiltrator.” He sat behind the wheel, laughing at his own joke.
Porter put the phone to his ear and stood looking at the chortling cop. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a jackass?”
62
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,
Edwards Air Force Base
The president and National Security Advisor Jeremy Lewkowicz were speaking privately in the briefing room at Edwards, awaiting the arrival of the cabinet, when General Couture entered the room.
“Sir, President Patrushev is on line one.”
More than a little surprised, the president took the phone from the cradle. “Let’s hope this isn’t more bad
news.”
He pressed the button and said, “This is the president of the United States.”
“Mr. President, how are you?” Russian president Patrushev asked in a somber voice. His English was quite good.
“Very, very busy, President Patrushev. How may I help you, sir?” It had already been made crystal clear to the Russian ambassador that the United States was extremely displeased with the Russian government for allowing not just one but two of its nuclear weapons to be stolen and smuggled onto US soil.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Patrushev said, “and I wanted to call you about it myself.”
The president stared at Couture. “I’m listening, Mr. President.”
“One of our intelligence people in North Korea has verified that the North will execute a surprise attack against the South the moment it is reported there has been a nuclear detonation in Washington, DC.”
The president sat down, grabbing a pen and scribbling “North K to attack S after detonation.”
“How certain are you, Mr. President?”
“The source is very reliable,” Patrushev said. “Your troops on the Korean Peninsula should ready themselves for war. I am calling because I want to personally assure you that we will not attempt to take advantage of the situation in any way. Nor will we condone such a move by Pyongyang.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. President. Is there any chance you can talk Pyongyang out of making this move?”
“The Chinese are attempting to do so now, but I would not hold much hope. Kim Jong-un is not a stable man—as you know.”
“President Patrushev, I’m sure you’re already aware of this, but in case you are not, sir, our military now stands at DEFCON One.”
“Yes, I have been told.”
“Then with that in mind, Mr. President, considering the grave news which you have just shared with me, are you willing to keep your navy at a safe distance in the waters around the Korean Peninsula? I ask you this, Mr. President, because there exists the very great possibility that our capital city is about to be destroyed by a nuclear weapon of Russian manufacture. The last thing I want—the last thing either of us wants—is for war to break out between our two nations.”
